By Your Bedside
by Beyond-The-Winter
Summary: "'Here you are again.' She said it with contempt, grudgingly accepting his presence. In the past she had kicked and screamed, but always managed to hurt herself worse trying to force him out of her sight..."  OC Native America/America interaction


**AN: Paaaaaaaaah, I should be writing "The Game" right now, but I'm too busy procrastinating to do that. I don't even know where this came from… I donno, I've been doing all kinds of research on serial killers so I have plenty of fresh material for "The Game" but it's starting to freak me out a bit… Did you know that America is the leading producer of serial killers in the world? Yep. It's true. I've been looking them up. All a trillion of them. Now I just want to write some fluffy, family love stuff, but it still came out a bit sad… :0**

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The hospitals he choose for her were always average in all regards, and this is why he choose them. He didn't want to cause her undue attention, nor undue discomfort. His mother was special after all. In the over all scheme of things, there weren't many of their kind, and he wouldn't let her die. Not yet, the world still needed her; his family still needed her, he still needed her.

She was more beautiful than an angel, her perfect long, black hair spilling over the white hospital pillows, eyes shut against the world, asleep and dreaming of happier times. The over-head light was shining just perfect to give her tanned skin an other-worldly glow he could only dream of capturing. He and his brother were so unlike her.

He ran his fingers through his hair, he could feel the curious glances from the nurses still prickling the back of his skull even after he had shut the door to the rest of the hospital. He didn't blame them, he would've sent himself a puzzled glance if he were them too. They didn't exactly look like mother and son. It wasn't often Native American Women birthed children with blonde hair and blue eyes.

America sighed and took up the unconscious woman's hand. She would never allow him to touch her when she was awake, so he took advantage of her sleep while he could. It wouldn't be long before she stirred, no matter what the doctor's diagnosis hanging at the bottom of her bed said. She always woke up when he was around, no matter how out cold she appeared to be. He leaned forward in his uncomfortable chair and pressed his lips against the soft skin of her hand, eyes squeezed shut, listening to the steady beeps of her vitals coming from the monitor next to her bed. It wouldn't be long before that little _beep, beep, beep _speed up, it wouldn't be so long before she was pulling her hand away from his small kiss, reminding him that she didn't love him after all.

Just as he knew it would, her heart beat sped up, and just as he predicted, she pulled her hand out of his weak grasp, leaving his lip cold. He realized he was crying the second he lifted his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes were dark and deep brown, pools of the bloody past, he knew. She sneered and turned her head haughtily, glaring at the door. America remained silent, content to punish himself by mentally tracing the lines of her face. She broke the silence first.

"Here you are again." She said it with contempt, grudgingly accepting his presence. In the past she had kicked and screamed, but always managed to hurt herself worse trying to force him out of her sight. She didn't seem up to throwing punches today, at least.

"Here I am again." He agreed. He wasn't sure why he did this to himself. She obviously didn't think of him as her son, not anymore. He never set days to visit her, he just always managed to find himself weeping at her bedside while she sat silent, her face set in disgust whenever things went wrong for him.

"So, what did you do today? I hope you upset that England again…" She sneered at him.

She must think so little of him, America mused to himself. Nothing in particular had happened, he had just found himself with some free time and managed to find his way there. Perhaps it was just the stress of everything piling up on him. There were flowers in his mind when he woke up that morning, fields of roses invading the fields of shy daisies and it somehow made him sad.

"I dreamt of you last night." He replied cryptically. She was one of the only people who ever saw him like this, coy, sad, reserved.

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. This is one he hasn't tried before. "Are you here to apologize again?" She was curious.

"No." He said in a flat tone. "There aren't enough _'I'm sorry'_s in the world to satisfy either of us."

The two of them were quiet for some time, eyes locked, neither of them comfortable with it. America knew she refused to see it, but the two of them were remarkable similar in character. Hot headed, action oriented, and stubborn as all hell.

She broke the silence for a second time. Agitated that he wouldn't just come out with it and leave already. "Then what are you here for?"

"I donno." America admitted. His face messed up in a way his mother had a hard time reading before hesitantly asking "How are you feeling?"

"Awful." She said curtly. "I don't like being hooked up to these tubes and speaking English makes me feel sick to my stomach."

America's frown lightens a touch at this. "You aren't strong enough to get by without being hooked up."

"I know that, fool boy," she snaps and bitterly adds "my little reservations aren't very healthy."

"I'm trying my best, Mom." The pleading him America's voice grated the sickly woman the wrong way.

"Your not my child." She said sharply. "My boys died when those European murders filled their heads with lies and turned them against me." America stood, pushing his chair back. It looked like his visit had come to an end. The conversation was always the same once it started down this path.

"Be nice to Canada next time he visits." He said and leaned in over her, attempting to brush his finger tips against her smooth cheek. She bristled and recoiled.

"Get out." She said darkly, and he obliged, walking calmly to the door, not looking back until he was shutting the door quietly behind him.

She watched the door for a full two minutes, making sure he was truly gone before muttering to herself "why can't you just let me die?" and drifting back off into unconsciousness.

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**AN: Oh, dear, is this about an OC? WOOT WOOT! NATIVE AMERICA IS A BITTER, BITTER WOMAN! As well she should be. I imagine she's kept alive through the native-American reservations, but the condition in most of those are reeeeeeaaaallly not nice places at all, so she's sort of just sickly now-a-days. D: And she gave birth to America and Canada, but they were quickly taken away from her by European settlers who mistook them for kids she (being a "filthy heathen" and all) stole away from some poor unsuspecting white mother. They probably just wandered off to their respective lands without giving it a second thought as soon as they were able to walk. Soon there after, as we all well know, the were found out by other countries, and didn't find out about their mom until it was much, much too late.**

**Yeeaah.**


End file.
